Secrets and Thoughts
by Steel Komodo
Summary: Two C.O.'s find love during war. Their friends suspect... well, not much. Rated M for Mature, Colin/Lash, AU, set during Black Hole Rising.
1. Secrets

**This fic is what happens when you hit writer's block with Chewin' the Fat, your brother gets back into Advance Wars and you get _really_ bored. It's my first Mature fic, so those of the nervous disposition may wish to back away slowly. Plus, there isn't enough Colin/Lash to go around!**

**Rated M for sex, violence, poss. OOC and thoughts of suicide. I did warn you. Also, Colin and Lash's ages are ambiguous in the games, so just try to think of them as being "the age of consent" and you're good to go.**

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><p>There were other, better girls out there, Colin knew. Girls with more personality like Sami. Girls who were sensible like Sonja. Girls – <em>women<em>, to be exact, with more curves like Nell. In short, girls who weren't the enemy, who weren't utterly crazy and didn't keep trying to stick electrodes to your skull, as if you were some lab chimp.

So why had he fallen for Lash of Black Hole?

He already knew what Olaf would scream at him if he found out. Couldn't that fat oaf see anything past his shiny rows of tanks and lines of troops? Did your country _really_ come before feelings, as the poor boy had heard over and over again in his youth? Not that Colin would say that out loud, of course. Not in front of the man whom he'd respected and followed for so long. And in a sense, the older man was right. What he was doing, what he got up to whenever he sneaked out of HQ every weekend or so, under the old lie of sick relatives, was unthinkable. He'd be betraying his home country, in cahoots with the enemy, a disgrace to Blue Moon. All that nonsense, the same stuff they rattled off on the propaganda posters – which _he_ designed, they often added with a hint of pride.

But he didn't _feel_ like a traitor – at least, not in the sense of giving vital information away or leaking troop movement. He never did that, so in a sense it wasn't betrayal, just something that would raise a lot of eyebrows. But Colin didn't know _what _he felt like anymore – a constant, churning mix of fear and excitement seemed to be his normal state of mind nowadays. What was the phrase Grit used? Between a rock and a hard place? Yes. That was what he felt like. Except it wasn't so much rock and hard place as a screaming Olaf throwing him out on his rear minus uniform and medals, and the combined Neotank regiments of Black Hole ploughing through his bedroom wall in search of justice for their defiled comrade. One slip-up, one minor fault in his exploits, and either one of those could happen to him.

He wasn't sure how dumb old Flak or sneaky Adder would respond if they knew what Lash got up to, but it probably involved some sort of dismemberment or torture. Sturm and Hawke would simply unravel her guts and convert them into a harp – an image that made him wince every time he thought of it. He knew that Black Hole was the strictest when it came to military discipline, and what they'd do to him alone if they ever found out what he and their lone female C.O. got up to would probably be worse than anything Olaf would do if he caught them both. Images of firing squads or tanks played themselves over in his head, and once he'd had a nightmare about being court-martialled minus his clothes as Judge Olaf rattled off his sentence, while Adder stood in the wings with a surgeon's knife in one hand and smirked.

So why Lash? Why did he have to fall for the girl who almost brought his country to its knees? On the battlefield, she was a squealing maniac who whooped with glee when a Battle Copter was shot down. Off it, she stuck needles in Flak, kicked soldiers in a temper and built mad contraptions to try and conquer Macro Land.

But when they were alone together… oh, _lord_…

She clung to him as though he were a long-lost teddy bear or a hot water bottle on a cold night. Her kisses sent thrills down his spine, as cliché as that sounded, and her touch always left him limp, sweaty and gasping. The feel of her soft skin against his was one he wouldn't forget in a hurry. And when they actually made love… Just _thinking_ about it was often enough for him to retreat to the toilets, where, for obvious reasons, he wouldn't come out for half an hour. And all the time, she'd whisper how much she needed him in his ear, or scream out his name as he tended to her wants, only becoming quiet once they were both spent and done. In those moments, it seemed as if his being there alone was the highlight of her whole day.

Perhaps that was why, in the end. Her life, judging from what she had told him, was now totally devoted to Black Hole, running around taking orders from Hawke, working for hours in total darkness (no wonder she was so pale) and taking the blame for whatever mechanical screw-up occurred. And what a life it was. Flak barely spoke to her, except when she was filling his blood with her latest serum, although he was probably happy to help. Adder taunted her from the shadows, sneering at her apparent madness, and was always the first to make some snide remark when their latest secret weapon was reduced to a pile of metal scrap by Orange Star tanks, or Green Earth Battleships. Red marks across her face, or the occasional black eye or bruise, told stories of Hawke's rage, for despite his calm exterior the older C.O. had no room in his world view for bunglers and failures. Often, when her face appeared on the COMMS screen, her usual manic cheerfulness was gone, replaced by dull boredom.

And then he – Colin, of Blue Moon – had arrived, and suddenly everything had changed. Their first kiss, so long ago, had been the start of… something new. And it didn't matter if they had to cross mountains, swim rivers or dodge artillery fire to see each other. As far as Colin was concerned, that something was here to stay.

Every night, she held him like he was a million-dollar ticket to somewhere far away from Adder's taunts, Hawke's cane and Sturm's hateful glare.

And that was how he liked it.

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><p>There were other, better boys out there, Lash knew. Boys with muscles or motorbikes. Boys who could fix giant death rays. Boys that didn't constantly stand to attention and salute, who didn't stammer occasionally or blow all of their money in trying to foil your plots. In short, boys who weren't the enemy.<p>

So why had she fallen for Colin of Blue Moon?

He was shaped like a stick figure drawing in some kindergarten child's art project. He walked as though he'd spent half of his baby years strapped to a blackboard. Looking at him, you'd hardly believe he knew how to fire a rifle, or direct a regiment of basic infantry – the medals looked like toys against his chest. And the fact that he was the heir to a cubic buttload of money and had a mansion in the sunny south coasts, with added butler and expensive car, didn't interest her in the least. Not when there were giant guns to be built, muscle-enhancing serums to be brewed and soldiers to be kicked about for dropping the culture dishes again. And yet… she couldn't help herself. Every weekend, as the first light of Saturday broke over the horizon, she'd slip out of her bedroom and sneak away from HQ for the sole purpose of seeing him, just so she could touch him, kiss him, hold him. It didn't matter where they met, just so long as she could be near him.

The others hadn't yet asked where she went during those two days of sheer boredom, when there was nothing to do except watch reruns of Top Tank on TV. Perhaps they didn't care – as far as they were concerned, she was off perfecting another of her wacky side projects. Like the Battlesuit. Oh, yes, they liked that one. Sturm had shown a special interest in it, and was probably filling out those pesky forms to get the science department ready for it. She hated paperwork – why couldn't they just let her build her cool new guns right away? Adder, meanwhile, had suddenly taken to lurking in random dark corners and waiting for her to show up. She would be walking down to the lab, humming cheerily to herself, and just as she turned a corner or opened a door there he would be, wearing his best snide Adder smirk. Sometimes he'd have a cup of coffee. He always pretended he hadn't heard her coming, but these little meetings were getting so frequent as to be annoying. Perhaps Sturm had set him up to keep an eye on her – the man couldn't trust her as far as he could spit. Not that he could spit with that ridiculous mask on. Apart from that, the others paid little attention to her, and sometimes she felt like an awkward house guest.

It was worse for her when Black Hole lost again, their troops driven back by Green Earth artillery or gunned down by Yellow Comet's Battle Copters. Those were the days when Adder sneaked into her laboratory and made a snide recap on the demise of her latest commissioned weapon. The days when Hawke, in yet another of his newfound fits of rage, beat her and smashed her about the face with his cane and screamed half-formed curses and threats, reducing her to a sobbing heap in the corner of whatever room he'd dragged her into. The days when even the normally chatty Flak wouldn't speak to her, simply sitting in a dignified silence as she applied the electrodes to his skull. Mealtimes would be dull, silent and full of annoyance. The TV in the barracks would be off, the soldiers silent and withdrawn. And Sturm would always be glaring at her through the eyeholes of his mask, radiating obvious disappointment, and she'd feel even more insignificant than ever.

It was on one of those days when she'd picked up the knife, intending to end it all.

But by some miracle Colin had been there, to soothe her and prise the thing from her hands. It had been their first kiss, that day, and every weekend after that they had gone another step further – from the sweet kisses, the touching and exploring, to the loss of clothing and finally the panting, sweat-covered tangle on the bed. When he wasn't tending to her desires, or cooking her breakfast in the abandoned log cabin they'd found in the woods on the border, he was telling her about how special she was to him, and she'd realised – she couldn't be all that worthless and hated. Not when his lips were tracing feather-light kisses down her neck, not when his hands were massaging and rubbing, and certainly not when his body was sliding back and forth against hers as they made love, his quiet moans in her ear. But wars were wars, and no matter what they always had to leave each other's arms as Monday morning drew near, casting longing glances back as they set off for home.

Perhaps that was why, in the end. He'd understood what she was going through, how little the others cared for her and what she needed the most. Perhaps he'd always known, ever since the incident with the knife so long ago. It felt as though he was patching up the wounds, taking away Hawke's rage, Adder's disdain, Flak's annoyance and Sturm's disappointment with her. He wasn't like the others at all. For one thing, he was brave enough to dodge under the noses of fat old Olaf and dozy Grit to see her. He was polite and kind – far removed from the tactless, barrack-room humour of Flak. He was someone to trust. Someone she could share her sadness with, someone to hold her up and keep her going. And, above all, he was someone to make her feel better about herself.

Every night, he held her like she was a glass bauble, some precious thing that could shatter any moment.

And that was how she liked it.

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><p><strong>...Geez, must have got something in my eye for a second there. Rate and Review, as always! :D<strong>


	2. Thoughts

**I've suddenly decided to make this a two-part series, with another part focusing on Grit and Flak's thoughts about their fellow C.O.s and their dissappearances. Hope this brings in more reviews!**

**Rated M, still. Also, I've just realised that, compared to Lash, Colin is a midget. Oh well. :P**

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><p>Grit wondered where the boy went to on his leave.<p>

Not that he was going to intrude. Colin had the same right to privacy that any other C.O. had when he was on leave, and Grit was probably the last person on earth who would go around asking questions. To be fair, it was a miracle the boy had so much leave in the first place, but Olaf still seemed to think of him as a child, unwilling to let him take responsibility for almost any critical battle or event at all. The practical upshot of all this was the boy had more than the usual leave, even during wartime. "So as not to tax the poor boy, you understand," he'd told Grit one day. The lanky man had nodded, but said nothing. In his private opinion, if Colin couldn't handle anything, he'd have said so himself.

The boy didn't grumble, though. And there was another pitfall, for Colin was shooting out the other side of his teens, and to think of him as a child for much longer would have been insulting. But again, he didn't grumble at all. He seemed to do whatever he'd been assigned – clean-up, patrols, small skirmishes – with no complaints, eager to please and to prove his worth as a C.O. The enthusiasm had annoyed Grit, once upon a time, when he'd had to admonish him repeatedly, insisting they stay on first name terms. If they were going to work together, he reasoned, better to be friends than just co-workers.

Lately, however, the enthusiasm had disappeared. Colin appeared to have withdrawn into himself recently, and he no longer jumped at the chance to carry out a task. Instead, an order would be greeted with a simple "yes, sir," occasionally paired with a sideways glance or, once he thought he was out of earshot of his superiors, a heavy sigh. Olaf blamed Grit as a bad influence, claiming that the lackadaisical approach of the sharpshooter had made the boy lax and resentful. Grit seriously doubted it. If he really was contagious, everyone in the Motherland 1st Heavy Artillery regiment would be asleep, and discipline was paramount when working with heavy explosives. No, it was something else that affected the boy.

He searched for answers himself. There didn't appear to be anything seriously wrong with Colin's military career – money had seen to most of that, and he was rapidly earning commendations for tangling with Black Hole outposts or shipping aid to the refugees in Yellow Comet. He briefly wondered, with a tingle of guilt, if Olaf had been right and that his own laziness had rubbed off, but he dismissed the idea out of hand. If there was one thing Colin would never pick up, it was sleeping in until seven o'clock, a disgraceful habit for a C.O. His home life seemed okay, too – sure, his sister was a little hard on him, but tough love never hurt anyone, and otherwise he lived in a sort of anti-Grit lifestyle, where opulence was the order of the day. The boy himself claimed it was ill relatives, but whoever the recumbent was, they were sure taking a long time to make their minds up, and Grit filed it into the" excuses" pile. The cause of Coin's mysterious behaviour seemed to be totally mysterious.

Then one day, whilst feeding the chickens out the back of his O.P., he'd had a brainwave, an idea that seemed so obvious and yet so impossible he'd stood staring into space, holding the bag of feed in one dumb hand whilst the chickens squawked impatiently and began to peck at his boots. Colin had a beau. A sweetheart, a crush, a significant other, a _girlfriend_. The idea seemed to be on an Andy level of ridiculousness, until Grit remembered he'd acted in a similar way in his early Orange Star days, when he had butted heads with Max over the attentions of blonde-haired, bubbly Nell. Orders and wars became secondary to his clumsy pursuit of romance, or to be more honest, a pursuit of getting laid. Grit smiled at the memories, then yelped as a chicken got rebellious and pecked at his ankle, demanding more food.

It explained a lot, anyway. Colin had become swept up in that terrible undercurrent called love in the river of life (a metaphor Grit would use until it was shrivelled and dead). Instead of focusing on the job at hand and the lives of his soldiers, he was focusing on every detail of whoever his sweetheart was – her lifestyle, her habits, and especially what she looked like. It was a classic, almost syrupy case of True Love, something most Blue Moon soldiers would happily exchange for "A Shag and A Fag." The recommended cure was a trip to the seedier parts of town for a few drinks and an exhibition of other women in order to dispel any problematic thoughts, but Grit doubted that A, the boy would go even if asked, and B, that his family would approve.

But why lie about where he was going? The army had a strict "married men go home first" policy, understanding that those with women needed to return to them every so often. Was Colin so wrapped up in his purposeful military life he found it shameful to leave H.Q. every so often over a woman? That would be just like him, Grit decided. And what would Sasha say, eh? It was a sure thing that she would put her foot down at her brother's behaviour. Maybe there was something arranged, or… hell, Grit didn't know. What did Blue Moon nobility get up to?

So that was it, then. Colin sneaked of during the weekends to attend to a girl whom he was courting. Probably Sonja – she seemed the slightly more timid type that would appeal to Colin's cautious nature – but it would be nice if he landed a big catch like Sami or, God forbid, Jess.

That's what Grit thought.

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><p>Flak wondered where his comrade went to on her leave.<p>

Not that he cared much, or at least, not that he appeared to care. The mighty Flak, worried? Hah! No way! Flak was never worried of anything. The only thing that scared him was Sturm's retribution when he messed up, and that was a given. Other than that, though, not even Hawke would intimidate him. Sure, he took orders from the spiky-haired idiot, but he wasn't _scared_ of him, no sir. None of the other C.O.s Flak worked with scared him in the least. Adder was built like a twig man, and would probably crumple if someone blew him over. Hawke acted all big and tough, but the man had a million different insecurities and scruples which meant it was easy to make fun of him.

Lash, now. Lash was probably the closest Flak had to a friend in the Black Hole army, if he allowed himself to have friends and if your definition of friend included the phrase, "someone who injected various things into you as and when they pleased." That was another of Flak's jobs – guinea pig. Every so often he'd go into Lash's laboratory and sit on the worktop, waiting for the shock of hair to run over and swab his arm or begin applying electrodes to his shaven head. Sometimes it hurt, sometimes it didn't. Pain was a minor detail compared to the conversation they could have. She didn't seem to like his jokes, though. Pity. The soldiers had almost died when he'd told them the one about the blonde, the read-head and the brunette climbing the stairs of heaven.

Lately, though, he'd been doing fewer tests. Lash disappeared sometimes, most often at weekends, and didn't reappear for two days or so. This was a regular occurrence now, but so far no-one had thought to look into it. Sturm had more important things to do, and the other C.O.s were occupied with their war efforts. If Lash couldn't keep up, that was her problem. Better three out of four than zero out of four.

The others seemed to go out of their way to suggest this, though. Adder in particular would skulk around the corridors of H.Q., waiting for someone to pass by. When Flak did, the thin, slimy man would fall in step and talk almost casually about various punishments he'd come up with that he was just dying to test out. Flak declined. When pressed for information about the girl's whereabouts, he responded with anger. How the hell should he know? If she wanted to skip off to experiment on woodland animals, let her. He'd nearly punched Adder at one point, but the smarmy git had just laughed and continued like nothing had happened.

Hawke may have had something to do with it. Lately, his superior, formerly a gentlemanly git who didn't even bat an eyelid if a soldier died, had been losing his cool quite a lot, especially after some crippling losses in the past. Even Flak himself had to step back when the silver-haired C.O. went into one of his rants, screaming about how all of their soldiers were badly-trained and useless and no-one could do anything right. Most of this was directed at Lash; usually on the basis that she was the one who'd built the giant cannon that had failed to stop Orange Star for the fifteenth time. The young girl had started showing up with bruises and red cane marks across her face, on the verge of tears. Flak wasn't stupid – he _thought_ he knew what was going on when her screams echoed from some other room in the HQ. He was just powerless. If Hawke _was_ doing more than ranting, then punching the twerp in the face would be the last thing he'd ever do in Black Hole.

Lash had also seemed a bit more withdrawn nowadays, speaking to him less during the tests and taking orders with a somewhat dozy reluctance. Once or twice, the others had seen her stare out of the nearest window and sigh dreamily, as if remembering something – or some_one_. Flak thought he recognised the signs – long ago, during a hazy time when he was as small and scrawny as every other Black Hole soldier, there had been this highly-decorated girl officer who was often the subject of the barrack-room's jokes and fantasies, and who treated everyone else as though they were small children on an Easter-egg hunt. Flak had vaguely remembered days without eating much, a sunny evening by a country river and a bunch of flowers… but then he'd shake it off. She was gone now, he'd changed far too much and there was no room in Black Hole for that sort of thing.

But it never explained why Lash came back so darn cheerful. That was what puzzled Flak the most – in the space of two days away from the others she'd transform from a sobbing, beaten wreck to a chirpy, slightly less beaten wreck. It was as if someone had subjected her to her own experiments – hooked her up to some newfangled thingy, zapped her in the head with a few volts and hey, presto! Back to normal! Flak couldn't help chuckling at the idea of the little techie being the guinea pig for once (he had a rather twisted sense of humour), but he knew no-one else who recovered so easily from a Hawke-induced thrashing without a course of medication. Add that to the facts that she sneaked off to the woods every weekend, talked less and less with the others and kept daydreaming all the time and… well, you had a puzzle on your hands, mate.

He reckoned she'd been making a breakthrough with that battlesuit. That was it. She was getting all the little bits together, working out the bugs and making sure everything was good. She was doing what made her happy, and he was probably thinking too hard about it.

That's what Flak thought.

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><p><strong>Rate and Review, as always!<strong>


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